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The Coronet Highlands was an easy place to escape to, all things considered. The pokemon there were used to him, and Melli, along with those of the Survey Corps, had left to engage in the festivities. The climb was simple, as well, ease of practice allowing him to scale the smaller crests of rock in search of a place to sit. His flute clicked against his hip, seldom used.
Despite this, Sneasler sat next to him, her head feather brushing the ground. In the distance, lights glittered up into the sky, their noise faint to them but surely cacophonous to those below them. She seemed curious — fireworks must not have been something the clans used often.
Fireworks… had they said that’s what they were called? Ingo’s mind chased the lingering traces of the memory, but it slid through his grasp easily and swiftly. Trying to hold onto these moments of clarity was like trying to capture a breeze, both fleeting and elusive. The frustration that followed was swift, as well, leaving just as quickly as his brief moment of clarity.
Alas, he knew better than to try and force recollection when his subconscious had decided firmly against it. That just gave him a headache, and today was to be a day of celebration. Even if he wasn’t keen to participate in the festival itself, he could appreciate the sentiment of it, and enjoy himself in his own way.
His Lady gave a questioning chirp, pulling him from his reverie. Her claws clicked together, her usual way of conveying alright? Sneasler had a particular knack for reading Ingo’s moods, a skill most of those he spoke to had yet to acquire.
“Yes, My Lady, I’m quite alright,” Ingo nodded at her, voice quieter than usual. She didn’t look convinced, but Sneasler was, at heart, kind. Unless necessary, she wouldn’t push him. They fell into companionable silence, watching the fireworks paint the sky with light.
From where he sat on one of the slopes of the Coronet Highlands, the soft glow of the village merged into a warm, lantern-like blur. In all honesty, he liked it better from a distance. Ingo had never quite clicked with the townspeople, with few exceptions. He was too loud, inexpressive, and had odd mannerisms and phrases. An outsider, both among Jubilife citizens and Pearl clansmen.
Here, in the Highlands, with only Sneasler and the other pokemon to keep him company, he was just Ingo. Not Warden Ingo (Sneasler had moreso adopted him , if anything), not the Pearl Clan’s charity case, not a strange man who fell from the sky. Just Ingo.
“They’re called fireworks,” he started, breaking the quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sneasler glance at him and back to the fireworks. “Made up of gunpowder, primarily, with little bits inside to make patterns. Usually, they’re used in celebrations.”
Of all things to remember, Ingo mused, of course it would be a fun fact about something small. He’d always had a good memory, though, particularly for mechanics and pokemon battles. Before he realized it, his mouth had opened again.
“Fireworks were always too loud for me. My brother felt the same, so we usually would stay in the subway where it was quiet or head out to the Drawbridge to watch.” A long pause followed, where Sneasler stared at him in surprise and Ingo realized what he’d said. His typical frown deepened, if marginally, but the wisps of memory skittered away from his reach.
Careful of her claws, Sneasler patted him on the shoulder. She was one of the few he allowed touch from, another one of his odd, outsider quirks. There were, of course, people who acted like him — quite a few, in fact. But even amongst them, he felt lonely, as his topics of interest were foreign and strange. How could one explain what a train was when he, himself, hardly even knew? Ingo knew the shape, the sound, the feel, but when he moved to explain, the words abandoned him. Instead, he was left to fumble, the feeling of longing in his chest growing stronger with each attempt.
He couldn’t not try, though. Some deep part of him resonated with the concept of them, like they were a passion. His coat and hat, tattered as they were, elicited a similar feeling. Ingo couldn’t bear to part with them.
Irida, at the very least, understood. She took no offense when he donned his coat and hat over the Pearl Clan’s garb, instead smiling and showing him around the settlement. Irida was one of the few who didn’t make him feel othered , who accepted him with his loud outbursts and his strange ramblings. Most of all, though, she didn’t make him feel crazy.
Upon dropping through that rift with few memories aside from his name, the traces of him that remained were clung to like a lifeline. Without them, who was he? His staunch refusal to suppress any of his natural tendencies stemmed from this desperation, this need to hold onto himself. As such, he was loud, he moved strangely, and his vocabulary made little sense to anyone but him half of the time.
Despite all of this, Irida took him under her wing, guiding him to Lady Sneasler, who in turn adopted him into her arsenal of children (all of whom were, of course, Sneasels. Ingo didn’t know what to think about that). They both listened . They didn’t understand, but they listened.
Faintly, he recalled his brother eagerly engaging with him during one of his infodumps. A firework popped in the sky, and the memory faded with its embers.